


That's All

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angry Sex, Drabble, F/F, Hate Sex, It's free smut, OOC but who the fuck cares?, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: She's wanted to do this for the longest time, and now she's grasping the opportunity in both hands.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 20
Kudos: 172





	That's All

**Author's Note:**

> Can't even tell you guys how long ago I started this fic 'cause it's embarrassing.

She's wanted to do this for the longest time, and now she's grasping the opportunity in both hands. Quite literally: her fingers are digging into Miranda's hips, pinning her to the couch.

They're in the townhouse's den; the Book and dry cleaning have been dropped off and now Andy has moved on to the next pressing matter on the agenda: fucking Miranda Priestly senseless.

She's been a nightmare to work under all day, for no better reason than the day before or Monday or last week--just because she could. Sometimes, Andy thinks, she seems to derive genuine pleasure from it. She lacks joy so much in her life that the only way to get it is to drain it out of the people around her, their misery sustaining her.

Now Andy obtains her sustenance from the sound Miranda makes when she pries open her blazer to reveal a very low-cut top. The large pendant of her necklace rests between twin mounds exposed by the shirt, the skin there already growing damp under Andy's ministrations and she hasn't even begun. But Miranda's lips are reddened and swollen, her hair mussed, and judging by the gasping breath she can't control, Andy knows she wants it just as much.

One hand steadies her on a couch cushion while the other ventures beneath the snug top, and there Miranda's skin is warm and inviting, her abdominal muscles contracting under Andy's touch. Her bra is a filmy piece of lace, as thin as if it weren't there, and through it Andy squeezes a breast that fits perfectly in her palm, resulting in a startled, strangled moan from up above.

"You want it?" she husks over Miranda, causing her eyes to glaze over.

"Just get on with it," Miranda snaps, but it lacks bite because her voice, too, has weakened, her breathing heavying. Still, as punishment, Andy pinches a nipple. " _Oh._ "

But Miranda does want it. Andy wants it, too, and intends to take whatever she pleases until Miranda begs her to stop. To that end, she presses one knee into the cushion between Miranda's legs, tosses a heavy, $1,300 _Alexander McQueen_ belt to the floor as if it were a mere piece of lint in the way, and unzips Miranda's pants. Beneath her, Miranda squirms impatiently, her breath leaving her in a short, panting rhythm, and arches her back.

With no preamble, Andy sticks her hand down her pants and, dear god, she's wet. Even through the silk of her panties, she can feel the dampness soaking the fabric. And she's hotter than she has a right to be. So hot, which should be impossible for someone who's so freezing cold in every other aspect. But it isn't and she is and Andy's eyes flutter.

"You do want it," she rasps. She's trying to sound dominant, in charge, but the fact is that Miranda's soft underwear slides against her fingers so decadently and she instinctively moves against Andy's hand, already looking too far gone to notice or even care, and all that combined makes it very hard to concentrate on anything other than giving her that orgasm she so desperately needs. That they both need.

She's even wetter under the silk, and when Andy's fingers find her flesh, she has to close her eyes for a moment and retain her equilibrium. And in that momentary pause, Miranda emits a high-pitched, needy sound and closes her fingers around Andy's wrist so hard it's bound to leave marks. "Are you going to fuck me or what?" she utters through pinched lips, the uncharacteristic profanity so foreign on her tongue it actually takes Andy aback. She looks up at Miranda's face, meeting an expression sharper than in any _Runway_ editorial meeting and just that bit scarier.

So Andy does. She plunges two fingers inside without so much as a warning and relishes the broken sob that follows, the way Miranda's head lolls back over the arm of the couch like a doll's head being snapped off its porcelain neck, hanging on by a mere thread. Her hand falls off Andy's, dropping limply to the cushion beneath.

"Is that what you want?" Andy pants, her vision swimming, scarcely able to believe she's fucking Miranda Priestly on her den couch.

"Harder," demands Miranda and proceeds to rock her hips. Andy may be the one on top, the one with the hand between Miranda's legs, the one who basically waltzed in earlier that night and claimed what she wanted, but for all intents and purposes, Miranda is the one controling the game.

Andy fucks her harder, but not because she was told to. It's a very important distinction to make. She fucks her harder because she's the one in control, because she's punishing Miranda with her force for every wrongdoing she's ever committed, and because she wants to see Miranda thrash against her very narrow surface and moan unbashedly. It's a good thing her children aren't home.

It's a tight fit with the tailored pants restricting her movement, but Andy'd be damned if she stopped now to remove them. Besides, with Miranda this riled up and tightly wound, it might be in her best interest _not_ to stop. So she doesn't, and Miranda keeps writhing and moaning, and Andy grabs a breast again, through the shirt, kneading and flicking her thumb over the protruding nipple she can feel through two layers of clothing.

"Don't stop. Don't stop," Miranda commands, not asking, and it comes out as a breathless whisper. She's pushing vigorously against Andy's fingers, anything but a passive participant, working just as hard toward the end goal. Andy has already forgotten about the end goal; she's engulfed by Miranda's wet warmth and intoxicating scent, the tantalizing feeling of her muscles holding tightly onto her fingers, the funny things that happen to her brain every time a new sound escapes Miranda's lips. But Miranda seems frantic with the need for release, her cheeks a lovely shade of red, her eyes hooded, her throat working constantly.

Only slightly sorry to end it so soon, Andy angles her wrist, rubs the heel of her palm roughly against Miranda's clit, and watches a hand fly to the back of the couch, nails biting so hard into the expensive upholstery they might puncture it. This time Miranda makes no sound, but her mouth is wide open, her eyes, contrastingly, squeezed shut, and it only takes moments for her entire body to tremble like a taut guitar string.

When it's over, it's more like the cessation of a drum beat, utter silence and stillness in the aftermath of something grandiose. Miranda's body relaxes gradually into the couch, the tension visibly leaving her muscles. As she extracts her cramping hand, Andy thinks that as much as she needed this, Miranda did, too.

"I, um..." She straightens up and gulps. "I'm gonna go now." In the face of Miranda's afterglow, she's not quite so confident, and as she watches her heaving chest, her flushed face, the mighty queen, at last, at the servant's mercy, worn out and defeated, she suddenly can't wait to get home and replay every sound and movement and sensation in her mind.

Back in the servant's role, she pastes on the customary, helpful smile that doesn't mind being at Miranda's beck and call day and night and getting nothing in return--because now she's taking it instead. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asks sweetly.

Through parted, dry lips, Miranda breathes out, "That's all."


End file.
